Up at the crest of the road, I could see little puffs of dirt rising and drifting against the sky. At first I thought that the wind was the culprit, gathering fistfuls of dust and tossing them into the swirling air. But the action did not coincide with the gusts. I stopped and watched. Again, an eruption of red earth spurted into the air. Something was tossing the dirt hither and thither. I crept up the last part of the steep slope and my feet crunched slightly on the gravel. The dust-tossing stopped abruptly and a long skinny turkey head rose slowly against the horizon, like a snake uncoiling from a woven basket. She stared at me, as if to say, "hmmmm?" The head disappeared and I rose over the crest to see her jogging down the road, her rocking gangly gait hurrying her away from where I had disturbed her dust bath.
A little further on, I looked down at my feet to discover a little baby turkey puffball scurrying across the road into the safety of the grass. "Huh," I said aloud. Again, an adult turkey's head emerged from the grass and seemed very surprised to see me. She suddenly realized what I was and exploded from where she had been nestled down. She screamed, I screamed, and she proceeded to run down the road in the direction I was walking. I tried to guide her progress and eventually succeeded in passing her and pointing her in the right direction back towards her family.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Bird Bath in the Mist
Behind me, the clouds are rising from the lowlands, seeming to be rushing towards me and at the same time stopped stock-still in time. The dust puffs up from my footfalls as I stride down the patchy dirt road, a jug of soapy water in one hand and several sets of plastic bowl bug traps in the other. I’m headed for a grassland point, where I will set out the bug traps to sample the arthropod community of this habitat. I reach the point and set out the bowls, filling each with sudsy water and carefully scraping the white scum from the surface of the water. The reflective surface of the water is apparently better for attracting insects to their watery doom. I then take a northerly bearing and pace out 50 meters. My stride makes for about 60 paces. I set out bug traps at this location as well, and then repeat the process at bearings of 120 and 240.
While I have been working, bent over my bowls, the stealthy clouds have caught up with me and mist now walks between the trees in the distance. The fog begins striding towards me and quickly I am surrounded by various shades of white. I’m glad to have my compass and an obvious road to follow back to the truck. I see that now the dust lies still, cowed by the moisture in the air. The toes of my boots gather small dark wet dots, which bleed into the clinging dirt.
I look up to a multitude of whirring wings. The mists have shrouded the land so completely that the sound tumbles out of the clouds, it origin unknown. But when the whiteness parts, I can see a gaunt skeleton of a tree against the sky. From its bony bare branches stringy yellowish moss grows like a scraggly old man’s beard. All through the network of bearded branches, small birds flutter, giving the mists their voice.
The number of birds surprises me (at least ten within a small area of the tree), as does their relative silence. The group is made up entirely of Amakihi and Japanese White-eyes, birds that usually twitter and call effusively. While their thrumming wings alerted me to their presence, I can only hear very soft chips coming from their throats. They seem intent on their mysterious business. I look through my binoculars, now curious to see what they could find so engrossing.
All along the branches, the birds lean up against the fog-wetted moss and flutter their wings and flick their tails. They are bathing in the dew caught on the vegetation from the passing mists. One Amakihi, clinging precariously the the bark, leans way down to take advantage of a spot underneath the branch where no one has yet soaked up the moisture. Another bird stands tall to quiver himself into some overhanging moss, a perfect shower if I ever saw one. All the birds are behaving as if they were standing in a puddle of water. I suppose in such a place as Hakalau, where the rains come in these soft breaths, the birds have learned that misty moss can serve as a shower source.
While I have been working, bent over my bowls, the stealthy clouds have caught up with me and mist now walks between the trees in the distance. The fog begins striding towards me and quickly I am surrounded by various shades of white. I’m glad to have my compass and an obvious road to follow back to the truck. I see that now the dust lies still, cowed by the moisture in the air. The toes of my boots gather small dark wet dots, which bleed into the clinging dirt.
I look up to a multitude of whirring wings. The mists have shrouded the land so completely that the sound tumbles out of the clouds, it origin unknown. But when the whiteness parts, I can see a gaunt skeleton of a tree against the sky. From its bony bare branches stringy yellowish moss grows like a scraggly old man’s beard. All through the network of bearded branches, small birds flutter, giving the mists their voice.
The number of birds surprises me (at least ten within a small area of the tree), as does their relative silence. The group is made up entirely of Amakihi and Japanese White-eyes, birds that usually twitter and call effusively. While their thrumming wings alerted me to their presence, I can only hear very soft chips coming from their throats. They seem intent on their mysterious business. I look through my binoculars, now curious to see what they could find so engrossing.
All along the branches, the birds lean up against the fog-wetted moss and flutter their wings and flick their tails. They are bathing in the dew caught on the vegetation from the passing mists. One Amakihi, clinging precariously the the bark, leans way down to take advantage of a spot underneath the branch where no one has yet soaked up the moisture. Another bird stands tall to quiver himself into some overhanging moss, a perfect shower if I ever saw one. All the birds are behaving as if they were standing in a puddle of water. I suppose in such a place as Hakalau, where the rains come in these soft breaths, the birds have learned that misty moss can serve as a shower source.
Pueo on my point count
“CF-08, CF-08,” I mutter, willing the flag marking this point to appear before me with no further effort on my part. My GPS has died, to my dismay. Anh Nguyet has placed the bright-colored plastic bowl bug traps at the remaining points, so in theory I should be able to find each spot. I turn around, feeling that I have gone too far. As I look back uphill, I see the flag, blowing mockingly in the slight breeze. I trudge up to the point and take off my backpack.
I dig into the pocket of my rainpants for the data sheet and a pencil. I write down the date and my initials, then glance up at the sky to estimate percent cloud cover. I then peer out into the landscape for Ohia trees. I need to estimate the percent of Lehua blossom bloom on up to ten trees in the vicinity. I spy one tree in the distance. Looking through my binoculars I see it has a few red spots within the entire foliage and decide this means “less than 10%”.
Now, time to start the point count. I set my watch for 8 minutes and begin the timer. Then, I listen, turning in a new direction every few minutes to ensure I’m not forgetting to pay attention to a different section of the area.
I hear a Northern Cardinal very far off, and note him down as a “NOCA”. Japanese White-eyes twitter from a nearby Koa, then come closer to give me a personal scolding. I write down “JAWE” and note the distance. Amakihi check in with each other with whiny “spee!” notes. When one HAAM spees, others call back, giving me a double check on my numbers. An Erckel’s Francolin laughs maniacally in the distance, at least two stations away. Dutifully, I write “ERFR”. Suddenly a little sneeze interrupts my concentration on the far-off sounds. “Ch-ch! Ch-ch!” There’s a pause, then the bird clarifies himself, and gives me his name. “Paio!” he whistles. “Eh-eh Paio!’ I can see the little brown Elepaio now. He swoops in close and looks up at the sky.
The way the little bird is intent on the sky above my head makes me aware of something behind me. I begin to turn around and out of the corner of my eye I see a winged shape arrowing towards me. As I’m turning, the shape flares up and I catch sight of the ventral side of a Pueo. Her startled yellow eyes dig into my own and she lets out an involuntary yelp. I watch, frozen, as she passes through the Koa corridor, dodging the trees effortlessly to escape into the open where she follows the contours of the grassy expanse, rising and falling over the hilled horizon.
I dig into the pocket of my rainpants for the data sheet and a pencil. I write down the date and my initials, then glance up at the sky to estimate percent cloud cover. I then peer out into the landscape for Ohia trees. I need to estimate the percent of Lehua blossom bloom on up to ten trees in the vicinity. I spy one tree in the distance. Looking through my binoculars I see it has a few red spots within the entire foliage and decide this means “less than 10%”.
Now, time to start the point count. I set my watch for 8 minutes and begin the timer. Then, I listen, turning in a new direction every few minutes to ensure I’m not forgetting to pay attention to a different section of the area.
I hear a Northern Cardinal very far off, and note him down as a “NOCA”. Japanese White-eyes twitter from a nearby Koa, then come closer to give me a personal scolding. I write down “JAWE” and note the distance. Amakihi check in with each other with whiny “spee!” notes. When one HAAM spees, others call back, giving me a double check on my numbers. An Erckel’s Francolin laughs maniacally in the distance, at least two stations away. Dutifully, I write “ERFR”. Suddenly a little sneeze interrupts my concentration on the far-off sounds. “Ch-ch! Ch-ch!” There’s a pause, then the bird clarifies himself, and gives me his name. “Paio!” he whistles. “Eh-eh Paio!’ I can see the little brown Elepaio now. He swoops in close and looks up at the sky.
The way the little bird is intent on the sky above my head makes me aware of something behind me. I begin to turn around and out of the corner of my eye I see a winged shape arrowing towards me. As I’m turning, the shape flares up and I catch sight of the ventral side of a Pueo. Her startled yellow eyes dig into my own and she lets out an involuntary yelp. I watch, frozen, as she passes through the Koa corridor, dodging the trees effortlessly to escape into the open where she follows the contours of the grassy expanse, rising and falling over the hilled horizon.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The 'Io and the Kalij chicks
I realize the title to this blog sounds like some Hawaiian version of an Aesop's fable. Maybe I'll try writing it, but for now, it was just the most convenient way to summarize the bird encounters I had yesterday.
We’re out at transect six, finding points along the steep slope of the gully, from which old Ohia and Koa reach skyward. I hear a croak from above us, and look around wildly, the sound vaguely familiar, suggesting something to me before I can put a name to it. There, above our heads, two Io fly, skimming the cliff on which we stand. I point and call excitedly, “Io! Two Io, look, one is dark the other is light!” I raise my binoculars and watch the spectacular pair, who continue to call and exclaim about their flight together. They soar downhill, surfing on the undulating forest surface, the very tips of their wings bent upward from the draft, like Red-tails. I lose sight of them as they blend into the complex pattern of the endless forest below.
I’m driving in the truck back to the field station. Annie is up front and Anh Nguyet in the back. The roads are like the surface of an unsettled ocean. At night, I continue to feel as if I’m riding the swells. Today, the dust swirls around us as I slow down for a particularly steep bump, edging the 4WD truck up slowly so as to avoid bouncing and thus scraping the undercarriage. I’m concentrating on the road so much that I don’t see what Annie does. “Look,” she says suddenly. She’s pointing up the road. I can see a small chicken-like bird paused in the shade of a Koa tree at the side of the two-track. Barely discernible is her red skin patch on her face, like a scarlet silk mask. “Kalij,” I say, slowing down. “Female, look she’s all brown, not dark black-blue like the male.” Then we see lots of little fluffballs scurrying around the female Kalij’s feet. Annie squeals in delight, “ooh, chicks!” Indeed, tiny yellow and brown striped chicks peer at us bemusedly until we edge too close in the truck. Some particular personal space boundary crossed, Mama Kalij reacts by striding off purposefully into the tall grass. The baby chicks try following her, frantically running, tripping, fluttering and bubbling around like chaotic popcorn. As we go slowly by, each of us craning our necks for a look at the chicks, they seem to me like unorganized ninjas, careening here and there as they flee the unbeatable truck monster.
We’re out at transect six, finding points along the steep slope of the gully, from which old Ohia and Koa reach skyward. I hear a croak from above us, and look around wildly, the sound vaguely familiar, suggesting something to me before I can put a name to it. There, above our heads, two Io fly, skimming the cliff on which we stand. I point and call excitedly, “Io! Two Io, look, one is dark the other is light!” I raise my binoculars and watch the spectacular pair, who continue to call and exclaim about their flight together. They soar downhill, surfing on the undulating forest surface, the very tips of their wings bent upward from the draft, like Red-tails. I lose sight of them as they blend into the complex pattern of the endless forest below.
I’m driving in the truck back to the field station. Annie is up front and Anh Nguyet in the back. The roads are like the surface of an unsettled ocean. At night, I continue to feel as if I’m riding the swells. Today, the dust swirls around us as I slow down for a particularly steep bump, edging the 4WD truck up slowly so as to avoid bouncing and thus scraping the undercarriage. I’m concentrating on the road so much that I don’t see what Annie does. “Look,” she says suddenly. She’s pointing up the road. I can see a small chicken-like bird paused in the shade of a Koa tree at the side of the two-track. Barely discernible is her red skin patch on her face, like a scarlet silk mask. “Kalij,” I say, slowing down. “Female, look she’s all brown, not dark black-blue like the male.” Then we see lots of little fluffballs scurrying around the female Kalij’s feet. Annie squeals in delight, “ooh, chicks!” Indeed, tiny yellow and brown striped chicks peer at us bemusedly until we edge too close in the truck. Some particular personal space boundary crossed, Mama Kalij reacts by striding off purposefully into the tall grass. The baby chicks try following her, frantically running, tripping, fluttering and bubbling around like chaotic popcorn. As we go slowly by, each of us craning our necks for a look at the chicks, they seem to me like unorganized ninjas, careening here and there as they flee the unbeatable truck monster.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Pueo
We were walking down on corridor Long, having left the corridor in the pasture and gotten into the forest points. The forest points are always the most difficult since you no longer have the obvious gulch or planted corridor to follow when in doubt. And the forest is wonderfully messy with sprawling logs, dense patches of ohelo bushes laden with red berries asking to be picked. The GPS often jumps around, unsure of itself under the tall canopy. So our paths to the two forest points meander. Annie was leading and she took a turn down into a little nook where she flushed a Pueo out from underfoot. The silent bird spread its striped wings and glided across an open patch in the forest.
"Pueo!" I whispered loudly, frantically trying to unhook my binocular strap from where it was hooked on my backpack buckle. I got the optics up to my eyes and studied the perfection in the Pueo's movement.
"What was that?" Annie asked.
"Pueo, the Hawaiian Short-eared Owl," I clarified.
"It was so silent!" she observed.
I agreed, "and think about how terribly loud those Erckel's Francolins and Turkeys are when they take wing. This guy was completely silent." I was still awed by our sighting. How were owls ever omens of bad luck? Maybe people find their noiseless mystery unnerving. But to me, owls are always a mesmerizing blessing.
I paused to write our sighting down on my point count notebook, then we continued hacking out way through the dense underbrush and wading through the waist-high seed-infested golden grass. We left a wake in the meadow and Pueo watched our labored progress from the darkness of an afternoon shadow.
"Pueo!" I whispered loudly, frantically trying to unhook my binocular strap from where it was hooked on my backpack buckle. I got the optics up to my eyes and studied the perfection in the Pueo's movement.
"What was that?" Annie asked.
"Pueo, the Hawaiian Short-eared Owl," I clarified.
"It was so silent!" she observed.
I agreed, "and think about how terribly loud those Erckel's Francolins and Turkeys are when they take wing. This guy was completely silent." I was still awed by our sighting. How were owls ever omens of bad luck? Maybe people find their noiseless mystery unnerving. But to me, owls are always a mesmerizing blessing.
I paused to write our sighting down on my point count notebook, then we continued hacking out way through the dense underbrush and wading through the waist-high seed-infested golden grass. We left a wake in the meadow and Pueo watched our labored progress from the darkness of an afternoon shadow.
Hakalau Forest
I am living at the U. of Hawaii field station at Hakalau Forest National Wildlife Refuge for ten days at a time this summer. On my weekends I head back over to Volcano where I stay at my dad's house. There are two interns with me: Anh Nguyet and Annie, both very nice and capable people, undergrads at Stanford. This is their first field experience, so they are still learning GPS and compass use, and how to hike around the forest without a trail (a real skill!).
This morning I woke up at 4:40, ate a breakfast of almond-banana oatmeal, and then we piled in the truck. I drove down to corridor "Grove" where we got out and followed our GPS to our first point, CG+16. A blue-and-white striped flag marked the exact spot that Liba had worked at last year. Anh and Annie put out the bug pan traps which are ostensibly 6 plastic bowls of 3 colors: two yellow, two blue, two white. They filled the traps half-full with slightly soapy water. The reflective surface of the water attracts insects, and I guess the different colors attract different types of arthropods. The slimy soap in the water makes it difficult for the bugs to get out again, and so they are sacrificed to science. Tomorrow we will go back to each of the points we left traps at and collect the bugs, now specimens, for identification later on. This will allow researchers to know what kind of arthropods are living at Hakalau. Liba is particularly interested in knowing how many native bees, genus Hylaeus, are around, and if they're doing okay or if they're declining.
I let the interns set out the traps, then they move on to the next point, 150m downhill. Once they've disappeared and their rustling has moved on, I begin my 8minute bird point count. For 8min I stand quietly and record every bird I see or hear, trying to keep track of those I've already counted (no easy feat, try keeping track of Japanese White-eyes bubbling around in a Koa tree!). This morning's point count of 10 points was a little slow. At several stations I only had three species: Amakihi, Japanese White-eyes and Northern Cardinals. Two other birds I counted a lot were Wild Turkeys, blabbling in the distance, and Erckel's Francolins, a chicken-sized ground bird who likes to startle hikers by suddenly bursting into the air with an explosion of wing beats from where you were about to put your foot.
The mornings are cool here, and the sun makes the distant clouds blush over Hilo town, far below us. The mountain top to our west begins to glow long before the sun hits our elevation. By 8am though, the sun is beating down and hiking gets hot. The shade remains cool and pleasant all day, however.
Yesterday I was helping to collect the samples from the pan traps down in the forest and I heard a descending ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee, like the Amakihi squeaky sewing-machine song, but with a distinct downward movement, a Hawaii Creeper! One of the three main endangered birds here at Hakalau. Then, from a little farther off I heard the jijit, double begging call of a young HACR. I smiled in their direction, but I had a bowl full of floating dead bugs in my lap, a vial with alcohol in one hand, and a pair of tweezers in the other hand, so I couldn't get up to go find them. I bent back down to my work and finished quickly. On my way back to the road, I heard a little two-note squeak, and looked up to see a chunky dull yellow bird with hardly a tail jumping around the large branches of a meandering Koa tree. I popped my bins up and saw the distinctive bill of an Akiapola'au, with a long curved upper mandible and the stout woodpecker-like lower mandible. The Aki peered at me then leaned over the branch to peek underneath for possible grubs. Another Aki joined the first and they exchanged soft dee-deet calls.
A little brown bird swooped in, as if wanting to know what was going on in this little busy spot in the forest. He spotted me and began whistling "paio! paio! eh-eh-paio!" The little Elepaio flew from one branch to another with a snap of his bill. When he landed, I saw he had an insect in his beak. He shook his head and gobbled down his snack, then hopped along the branch to get a closer look at the tall flightless intruder.
I said goodbye to the forest birds and went back to the road where Anh Nguyet and Annie were waiting.
This morning I woke up at 4:40, ate a breakfast of almond-banana oatmeal, and then we piled in the truck. I drove down to corridor "Grove" where we got out and followed our GPS to our first point, CG+16. A blue-and-white striped flag marked the exact spot that Liba had worked at last year. Anh and Annie put out the bug pan traps which are ostensibly 6 plastic bowls of 3 colors: two yellow, two blue, two white. They filled the traps half-full with slightly soapy water. The reflective surface of the water attracts insects, and I guess the different colors attract different types of arthropods. The slimy soap in the water makes it difficult for the bugs to get out again, and so they are sacrificed to science. Tomorrow we will go back to each of the points we left traps at and collect the bugs, now specimens, for identification later on. This will allow researchers to know what kind of arthropods are living at Hakalau. Liba is particularly interested in knowing how many native bees, genus Hylaeus, are around, and if they're doing okay or if they're declining.
I let the interns set out the traps, then they move on to the next point, 150m downhill. Once they've disappeared and their rustling has moved on, I begin my 8minute bird point count. For 8min I stand quietly and record every bird I see or hear, trying to keep track of those I've already counted (no easy feat, try keeping track of Japanese White-eyes bubbling around in a Koa tree!). This morning's point count of 10 points was a little slow. At several stations I only had three species: Amakihi, Japanese White-eyes and Northern Cardinals. Two other birds I counted a lot were Wild Turkeys, blabbling in the distance, and Erckel's Francolins, a chicken-sized ground bird who likes to startle hikers by suddenly bursting into the air with an explosion of wing beats from where you were about to put your foot.
The mornings are cool here, and the sun makes the distant clouds blush over Hilo town, far below us. The mountain top to our west begins to glow long before the sun hits our elevation. By 8am though, the sun is beating down and hiking gets hot. The shade remains cool and pleasant all day, however.
Yesterday I was helping to collect the samples from the pan traps down in the forest and I heard a descending ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee, like the Amakihi squeaky sewing-machine song, but with a distinct downward movement, a Hawaii Creeper! One of the three main endangered birds here at Hakalau. Then, from a little farther off I heard the jijit, double begging call of a young HACR. I smiled in their direction, but I had a bowl full of floating dead bugs in my lap, a vial with alcohol in one hand, and a pair of tweezers in the other hand, so I couldn't get up to go find them. I bent back down to my work and finished quickly. On my way back to the road, I heard a little two-note squeak, and looked up to see a chunky dull yellow bird with hardly a tail jumping around the large branches of a meandering Koa tree. I popped my bins up and saw the distinctive bill of an Akiapola'au, with a long curved upper mandible and the stout woodpecker-like lower mandible. The Aki peered at me then leaned over the branch to peek underneath for possible grubs. Another Aki joined the first and they exchanged soft dee-deet calls.
A little brown bird swooped in, as if wanting to know what was going on in this little busy spot in the forest. He spotted me and began whistling "paio! paio! eh-eh-paio!" The little Elepaio flew from one branch to another with a snap of his bill. When he landed, I saw he had an insect in his beak. He shook his head and gobbled down his snack, then hopped along the branch to get a closer look at the tall flightless intruder.
I said goodbye to the forest birds and went back to the road where Anh Nguyet and Annie were waiting.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Heading Home
I'll be leaving Sanibel in about a week and a half now. I will definitely miss the Anhingas and the Ibis, but soon I'll be hanging out with the Akiapola'au and the Apapane. It will be so nice to be back on the Big Island. I'll be working with a Stanford postdoc who is studying habitat needs of the hawaiian honeycreepers. We'll be color-banding birds, doing plant surveys where the vegetation is friendly (no poison oak!), and also teaching some bird tour guides how to read color-bands. I'm also hoping to meet more people working in hawaii bird conservation. All in all, it will just be great to be back in the islands (on my favorite island) and working once again with the awesome birds there.
A picture to spice up this otherwise blah blog.
A Reddish Egret.
For more new pictures, go to
http://picasaweb.google.com/susan.culliney
A book/author recommendation: Kim Stanley Robinson. I just finished his climate change trilogy (Forty Days of Rain, Fifty Degrees Below, Sixty Days and Counting), and found them hopeful and well-written. I really liked #3 the best, I enjoyed reading about a fictional president who was doing the right things about our global problems, and cutting through the American fat. This author also has another trilogy that I liked better in terms of the story: the Mars trilogy (Red Mars, Blue Mars, Green Mars). He also wrote The Years of Rice and Salt, a wonderful book about an alternative history of the world. This author works as if he's writing historical fiction. You know, like he's writing about a fictional Civil War soldier; the actual person didn't exist but all the events and facts are accurate. Yet, Robinson is writing about the future in such a way. His ideas are completely plausible and in many ways hopeful for the human species, even while he points our our flaws and the immense conflicts that arise because of them. The more these ideas are passed around, the more they may come into reality, much as Jules Verne's ideas inserted themselves into technological advances. So, read them! Pass them on! Think and discuss! I'll be so happy to talk about these books and ideas.
A picture to spice up this otherwise blah blog.
A Reddish Egret.
For more new pictures, go to
http://picasaweb.google.com/susan.culliney
A book/author recommendation: Kim Stanley Robinson. I just finished his climate change trilogy (Forty Days of Rain, Fifty Degrees Below, Sixty Days and Counting), and found them hopeful and well-written. I really liked #3 the best, I enjoyed reading about a fictional president who was doing the right things about our global problems, and cutting through the American fat. This author also has another trilogy that I liked better in terms of the story: the Mars trilogy (Red Mars, Blue Mars, Green Mars). He also wrote The Years of Rice and Salt, a wonderful book about an alternative history of the world. This author works as if he's writing historical fiction. You know, like he's writing about a fictional Civil War soldier; the actual person didn't exist but all the events and facts are accurate. Yet, Robinson is writing about the future in such a way. His ideas are completely plausible and in many ways hopeful for the human species, even while he points our our flaws and the immense conflicts that arise because of them. The more these ideas are passed around, the more they may come into reality, much as Jules Verne's ideas inserted themselves into technological advances. So, read them! Pass them on! Think and discuss! I'll be so happy to talk about these books and ideas.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Decisions
When making decisions in life, why do the choices you want the most always the ones to get back to you last. Meanwhile, your second and third choices have gotten back to you positively, but you have to turn them down in order to wait to hear from the first choice. It hasn't played out yet for me, but I'm worried that choice #1 will not come through and I've already lost my chances at other, pretty good, options.Go with the flow.That's what I'm trying to tell myself.Otherwise, spring is kinda here. Sanibel won't get much of a migration, but I've seen Mottled Duck-lings hurrying after their mother duck in the Bailey Tract. The Cardinals and Mockingbirds are singing enthusiastically.
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